


Once You Have Tasted Flight

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Knotting, M/M, Outdoor Sex, TW Kink Meme fill, semi slow build, winged!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“If you were born without wings, do nothing to prevent them from growing.”</i> - Coco Chanel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once You Have Tasted Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4056819#t4056819) ♥ I'm not usually into the whole wing-kink thing, but I couldn't help myself.
> 
> The title comes from Da Vinci's quote, _"Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return."_
> 
> Edit (09/10/12): [Chiara](http://godlaughsatmyplans.tumblr.com) has drawn me some [lovely fanart](http://godlaughsatmyplans.tumblr.com/post/31282657670/erin-wrote-this-and-i-just)! Omg! It's so perfect wow wow wow. ♥

“Dude I don't see anything.”

Stiles bites back the urge to cry.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Scott amends, fingertips brushing Stiles' back. “But, just, dude there's nothing there.”

Stiles groans into the pillow. He bites it when another scream rises in his throat. “It feels like someone taped the sun to my back. I feel like Satan is using lava as lotion on my back.” He writhes, kicking his legs and burrowing his face into the pillow again. “Scott, you need to make it _stop_.”

“How!?” Scott squawks, and Stiles can't even find it in himself to be angry. Because this isn't Scott's fault, it's not really anyone's fault—except maybe his dad's, his mom's, _genetics_. But he can't be sure because all he knows is _blinding motherfucking pain_. “I'm gonna go get Derek!” He shouts.

“Deaton!” Stiles snaps but Scott is gone, his presence leaving nothing but the swishing of curtains from his open window. Stiles gnaws at the pillow until he tastes feathers in his mouth.

)

Scott shows up with both of them in tow. Derek stays in the threshold of Stiles' bedroom door, but when Stiles turns his head and squints, he can see lines of concern digging into Derek's flawless fucking face. Stiles opens his mouth to speak, to talk to Deaton, to ask questions, but Deaton simply hushes him. “Stiles,” Deaton speaks to him instead, “how much do you know about your mother?”

Stiles shrugs and hisses when the movement burns. Deaton hums, and tsks, and stares at Stiles' back.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like,” Stiles grits his teeth to answer, “like a sunburn from hell. Like someone dumped boiling water on my back and slathered me in gasoline and set me on fire.” He whimpers into the pillow and chokes on more feathers. “Please.” He arches his back up, chewing on his lip as a scream builds again.

“Scott, start a bath. Cold water, then, go get some ice.” Deaton sounds unsteady and unsure, but it's more than Stiles has been able to think of for hours. “How long has it been like this, Stiles?”

“Since this morning.” He cries, forcing himself to lie still. “Woke me up, it hurt so bad.” He groans and curls fists into his bedsheets.

“Not before?”

“Never before.”

Stiles can't see anything, both because his face is shoved in a pillow and because the overwhelming pain is making his vision blurry. Deaton is speaking again. “Derek, pick him up but don't touch his back. Carefully.”

Derek growls and Stiles feels oddly comforted by the familiar sound, not laced with panic and sounding like he wants to kill Stiles for doing something stupid. It's reassuring, and Stiles clings to it. He throws his arms around Derek's neck, and he feels the pinprick of claws as Derek holds him by his hips. The pain increases ten fold, the movement shifting his skin. Stiles feels raw, like his whole back is an open wound exposed to salty sea air, stinging and tangy with pain. Faintly, over the blood rushing in his ears and the constant growl from Derek's bared teeth, he hears ice falling into the bath. It plops through the surface of the water, clattering on the sides of the tub. Stiles whimpers again and digs his teeth into the leather of Derek's jacket.

The next thing he knows, he's being lowered—in nothing but his boxers, when did that happen—into the bathtub, and wailing because it hurts _so good_.

The relief is like a slap to the face. It still hurts, so cold it almost burns, but it soothes the ache in his muscles and skin. Stiles relaxes into the water, making sure to keep his back from actually touching the sides of the tub. He sighs in relief. He passes out before he can open his eyes and say thank you.

)

When he wakes up, his back is sore but not burning, he's in fresh pajamas, and Deaton is far too close for comfort. “Uh.”

“Good, you're awake.” Scott and Derek are gone, so Stiles has no choice but to focus on Deaton.

“What's.. yeah, what's going on?”

Deaton is just staring at Stiles intently. “I had a long talk with your father. Who admitted that there was something less than ordinary in your mother's past.”

Stiles swallows nervously.

“It isn't a bad thing,” Deaton assures, “it's simply genetic.”

 _Called it_ , Stiles can't help to think.

“Your father and I dug up some old history books from the attic,” he has one in his laps, still coated in a layer of dust and forgotten memories. “Your mother was Russian.”

Stiles shrugs. “Her family was, yeah.”

Deaton nods. “That makes much more sense then.”

Stiles nods as well before snapping, “ _So_?”

“I have reason to believe that somewhere in your mother's lineage, there may have been a relative born of an affair between a distant grandfather of yours and..”

“And...?”

“I can't be sure if it's a _Sirin_ , or an _Alkonost_.” Deaton sighs into the book. “They fit the bill in some ways, and in others not at all. It seems highly unusual that they would let a child, one of their young go. But..” He gestures to Stiles. “Seems to have happened.” 

Stiles blinks. “So wait _what_.”

Deaton furrows his eyebrows. “A distant relative of yours had a child with a Russian bird woman, and that child was a hybrid, and apparently it skipped a couple hundred generations until it got to you.”

Stiles, if anyone were to ask, passed out in a _totally_ manly fashion.

)

When Stiles comes to, _again_ , Derek is there, with Scott and his father and Deaton. “So, I'm a bird.”

“A hybrid.” Deaton corrects uselessly.

“Great. Awesome. Totally.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “Why _now_?”

“That, I have no answer for.”

“Fucked up birthday present?” Scott offers, even though Stiles won't be eighteen for another two months.

“I think the universe just hates me.” Stiles groans, flopping onto his back. He tenses, waiting for the pain. But nothing of the sort comes, instead he's only filled with the same dull ache as before. He sits up gingerly. “Still nothing?” Stiles turns his back to Deaton.

The stifled gasps do nothing for his self esteem, really.

“That's definitely not nothing.”

Stiles watches from his peripheral vision as Scott scrambles to take a picture. Stiles waits, fingers tapping against the bed until the touch screen is shoved in his face. “What the hell.”

His back, for the most part, certainly doesn't look like it went through hell. Except just inside his shoulder blades are two oblong, off colored ovals. That's all, though. They aren't scabbing or burned or scarred. Simply pinker than the rest of his skin. “What the hell.” He says again, still exasperated.

)

Two nights later finds Stiles' back itching—in the most impossible spot to reach, the universe really does hate him—and finds Stiles hopelessly awake, staring at his computer. He's researched as much as he can about _Sirins_ and _Alkonosts_ , and all he's able to conclude is that he's probably growing wings. Which is as cool as it is terrifying. He sighs and lets his head hang.

The knock at his window isn't as startling as it should've been. He nods and Derek quietly slips into his room. “How are you doing.” Derek asks in a way that isn't much like asking at all.

Stiles shrugs and reaches back to scratch, and fails. “They itch, I'm growing wings, I'm pissed and excited and I just want to sleep but holy mother of _God_ the itch.” He grumbles more at his laptop screen until claws find the perfect spot between his shoulder blades. “Holy fuck.” He gasps out, mid rant.

“Is this okay.” Still, it doesn't sound like a question. Stiles nods anyways, and hunches his shoulders.

“A little harder.” He instructs, “higher, right.” And Derek obeys each order, each breathless and exhausted command. By the time he feels sensitive and sated, Derek has got him tucked into bed. “No, you can't leave,” he starts sleepily as Derek moves to the window. “What if I wake up with a really awful itch?”

He doesn't see Derek grin. “Text me.” He doesn't bother to tell Derek how that's stupid and a complete waste of gas. He just nods.

)

“Dude.”

Stiles looks over at Scott, who's reaching for him with wide eyes. “Dude?”

“ _Dude_.”

Honestly, they should probably figure out a more efficient means of communication. But that thought is reserved for later, when Scott's hand lands on his back and comes back into view with a small handful of feathers.

“Oh my god you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

)

“I don't see why you're freaking out.”

Stiles kicks Deaton in the shin.

“You knew you were going to grow wings.” Deaton scoffs. “Did you think they'd just be flesh and bone and cartilage?”

Stiles mumbles something that might be _maybe_ and might be _you're a fucking asshole_.

Deaton shakes his head. “Get out of here, I have animals to tend to.”

)

Stiles wakes up with feathers in his mouth.

At first, he suspects he's in so much pain he's gone numb, and has been eating his pillow to stifle the screams again. But no one has come rushing into his room in concern, and the feathers around him are bigger, stronger, not the wimpy flimsy ones in pillows.

He briefly wonders how, once summer is over, he's supposed to go to school with giant feathered appendages protruding from his back. (That is, if they grow. Because right now they're small and fluttering and _babyish_. Which just don't do. He'll never live it down if he's stuck with pathetic baby wings for his whole life.)

He isn't sure what to do so he calls Derek. “I have wings.”

“Congratulations?”

“You make it sound like I had a kid.”

“Actually _you_ did.”

Stiles mulls it over, _'it's a boy!'_ versus _'I have wings!'_ and yeah that one was his fault. “They're tiny.”

“Size doesn't matter.” Derek tells him, and Stiles wants to hit him.

“I hate you.” But he can't hit him because it's a phone call so he hangs up.

)

They do grow, and they itch, and there's burning again, though not as bad as before. Only when they grow. And when they aren't growing and burning, they're itchy. His skin, the wings themselves, the feathers tickling his skin. His back is ready to turn into one big scab from all the scratching he does.

He's well on his way to accomplishing that when Derek tumbles through his window one night, and looks stricken as he stands. Something—a tube—hits Stiles in the face, and Derek mutters out “to stop the itching” before he's gone.

Stiles uses it in unhealthy and liberal amounts and wakes up no longer itching, but plastered to his bed.

)

As they grow, they take on a distinct coloring; from his back, they're a deep sky blue with black tinging the edges that stick out. From there, they fan out in two layers of blue, black, and white striped feathers. They're soft when Stiles touches them, and they almost seem to have a mind of their own. Things that never before seemed relevant seem magnified—the chill of a door opening, because of the way it makes his wings ruffle. That feeling in his chest when his dad calls him kiddo or when Derek is being _nice_.

When he looks it up, he's mildly confused about why he's grown _blue jay_ wings of all things. But as he reads about them, he figures it's a good fit.

)

Summer carries on pretty, well, lamely. His wings grow which is cool. But, since they aren't really sure how to contain the freaking things, Stiles is confined to his house and is to be kept away from the large window in the living room. He ends up watching _Pretty Little Liars_ up to the most recent episode, as well as an ungodly amount of shitty horror movies.

“How're you doing today, kiddo?”

“I think they've stopped growing.” They span out maybe six inches past his arms, when he holds them taut and straight. His dad nods. “I wonder if I can fly.” His eyes light up.

“No.”

“But dad.”

“No.”

“Dad I'm almost eighteen.”

“And until you are, there will be no attempts at flying.” His father eyes the wings. “I'm not sure how you're planning to even get out a door with those things.”

Stiles sighs, excitement fleeting. “I know.” He groans. “It sucks.”

)

Stiles feels like he should be concerned when Derek starts showing up to dinner unannounced. He does it even when Stiles' dad doesn't work, which is all the more freaky. Weirder still, after the dishes have been washed and put away, Derek crowds Stiles up against the upstairs hallway and simply nuzzles his neck.

Stiles feels like he should be concerned, and is only mildly upset that he isn't.

)

“Hey.” He says as he listens to Derek raise his fist to knock on the window. “C'mon,” Stiles stands and stretches, wings fluttering. Derek slips inside.

“You heard me?”

“Yeah?”

Derek looks baffled, but Stiles doesn't care. He crowds Derek's personal bubble first, and grins at him. “So I have a question.”

“Of course you do.”

“What's with the dinners? And the nuzzling?”

Derek doesn't pull away. He doesn't go into some tragic brooding fit of man pain like all the harlequin novels said he would. He bites his lip and looks away. He looks torn between embarrassment—which, hello, _weird—_ and glee. Which, also weird.

“You smell good.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “I haven't showered in like weeks.”

“It's been four days.”

“Feels like weeks.” It's a pain, with the wings, and it takes him an hour and a half longer than it used to to shower. Derek breathes against him.

“You smell good.”

“Good.” Stile replies flatly.

“Better than before.”

“I smelled good before?” Stiles asks, pondering that nugget of information. “So why now?”

Derek growls against his face, a rush of hot breath. “I can't help myself now.”

“It's stronger?”

“It's different.”

Stiles nods. “Does it physically pain you to speak in complete, full fledged sentences that might actually perpetuate a conversation?”

“Yes.”

Stiles laughs, shaking against Derek and cuddling up to him. “C'mon, talk to me.”

Derek grumbles but his grip around Stiles tightens. “Before, you smelled good. You smelled like pack and home, like—like all the things I could want.”

Stiles nods, feeling sleepy and warm in Derek's embrace. “And now?”

“Now you smell like sex, eager and _gagging_ for it.”

Stiles suddenly isn't so tired. “Oh yeah?”

Derek talks while he mouths at Stiles' throat. “You smell like you were made for me, like _mate_.”

“So becoming a hybrid brought on an unexpected release of werewolf pheromones. None of that made any sense, but if it means we get to do it, I'll take it.”

Derek leans back to stare at Stiles. “Are you sure?”

Stiles gives him an unimpressed look. “Have you ever known me to be the type of guy who'd let someone—let alone a ruggedly handsome Alpha _werewolf—_ shove me around unless I was completely and utterly and hopelessly in love with them?”

Derek grins, all teeth.

)

Stiles turns eighteen in August, two weeks before school is scheduled to start; two weeks before his senior year begins, and it's the first time he's been out of the house since the whole “Satan pouring lava lotion on his back etc etc” incident occurred. And, sure, it doesn't necessarily count because from the moment he's on his front porch he gets herded into his dad's patrol car and shoved into the backseat. But still, fresh air was nice.

The drive, his dad vibrating with nerves. Stiles wants to reach forward and lay a hand on his shoulder, but can't, so he settles for filling the silence with inane chatter.

(And if he accidentally lets it slip that he and Derek are dating (mates) now, then, his dad can only blame himself.)

Stiles flashes an apologetic look at Derek when they get to the Hale house. Derek looks at him in confusion, a look that melts into terrified irritation when Stiles hurries into the house and Stiles' dad asks to talk to Derek. Alone.

Stiles is on the roof of the Hale house when his dad and Derek reemerge from a thick patch of trees. They stay on solid ground and Stiles knows that Derek is ready to wolf out and catch him should this all go to shit. “Ready?”

“Don't do this.” His dad shouts back. “Think about all the safe things you could do with wings. Like live with your lonely father and make sure he eats healthy and never have sex because you're too young to be growing up.”

Stiles grins. “Here goes nothing!” He shouts, his voice echoing across the forest, rustling other birds out of their trees and into the early afternoon sky. He stretches out his arms and feels a rush of adrenaline as his wings do the same. Stiles shoots a wink at his dad and Derek before he leaps.

His first instinct is to scream, because he's falling too fast. He opens his mouth but all that he can do is choke on unwanted and heavy inhales. He closes his eyes, he winces because he can practically feel the heat of the earth rushing at him.

And then, nothing.

But not in the “oh my god I hit the ground so hard I totally died and my dad and boyfriend just had to watch my guts splatter everywhere” way.

More in the “my wings are smarter than I am and totally saved me and holy fucking _shit_ I'm flying” kind of way.

As his wings curve in an endless infinity cycle, Stiles catches glimpses of blue from the corners of his eyes. He grins and watches the leafy and dirt ground blur into mixes of green and brown and gray beneath him. He maneuvers through trees with a grace he's never known himself to have. He flies low to the ground before taking a sharp turn up, following a branch-stripped tree until he's above the forest. Stiles only allows himself a few seconds to take in the view before he's diving into the forest again, in the direction of the Hale house.

He shifts from holding his body firm and horizontal to letting his feet land first, sliding through the give of mud. His wings continue to flutter and move even after they've stopped trying to fly. He can't contain his grin, and he launches himself at Derek.

“Holy _shit_ I can _fly_.”

)

It becomes significantly less funny when Jackson sets Stiles' ringtone on his phone to _“I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky”_ on repeat.

)

Stiles pants, grinning like a madman at his friends; Scott and Jackson aren't as tired as Isaac, Boyd, or Erica, but Stiles has them all beat. His back aches, and he'll probably be sore for weeks, Stiles can't help the excitement and adrenaline pumping through him. His wings don't cease to move, even though his pack has shifted to their mostly human forms. He doesn't need to go out on the full nights with them, but it's fun to.

Warm arms circle him from behind, mindful of his wings. The rest of the pack groans, and trumps into the house to fall sleep.

“Tired?” Derek asks him, a wet voice in his ear.

“No.” Stiles answers honestly. “You?” He steps out of the embrace to draw his wings in and face Derek.

“Not even a little.” Derek smirks. He brings his hands, large and covered in dirty, nails still a little sharp, to cup Stiles' face. Stiles grins and leans into the kiss. His wings unfold again, unable to contain themselves. As if Stiles wasn't an open book already, his wings are a pretty big giveaway to whatever he's feeling. “C'mon.” Derek says softly to him, tugging him back into the thick of the forest and away from the house.

Derek keeps them moving for what feels like hours. They keep going until they're miles from the house. Derek sits on a rock, one that's flat and smooth, and tugs Stiles into his lap. Derek doesn't say anything as his fingers rub greedily at the base of Stiles' wings, as he rubs the skin that leads into feathers. Stiles shudders, arching against Derek.

It shouldn't be so surprising that Stiles' wings are something of an erogenous zone, but sometimes it still is. He shifts easily as Derek all but manhandles him until he's baring his back to Derek.

“You're such a freak,” Stiles gasps out, more moan than laugh. Derek smirks against his skin and laps at the deformation, the light scarring. Stiles isn't a werewolf, he doesn't heal instantly and he's not suddenly super strong or invincible. He's just a little better than before, with wings. He's basically the same guy, really.

With wings.

Stiles is sure he'll never _not_ get embarrassed by the way he moans when Derek strokes over his wings. Derek's fingers, strong and sure but so very careful, gently running along his feathers and scratching all the right spots.

Stiles looks at Derek over his shoulder, wings flapping once and rustling the dead leaves that have fallen to the forest floor. “Here?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

Derek nods with wide icy blue eyes, jaw set and firm.

Stiles stands and shucks his pants down to his ankles; Derek simply unbuttons his own and yanks them down to his knees, barely enough to free his cock and ensure Stiles won't get bit in the ass by his zipper. Stiles grins and slips back into Derek's lap.

It's not going to be enough, Stiles thinks as he sucks on Derek's fingers; it's going to burn and stretch and hurt, but he'll love it like he loves everything with Derek—with small doses of hate.

Derek bites at Stiles lips after pulling his fingers away. In return, Stiles secures his teeth around Derek's lower lip as fingers slide inside him. He shudders and his fingers curl around them, in pain. They block out the moonlight overhead, and cast a dim and faintly blue light on Derek's face below Stiles.

One finger becomes two becomes three, occasionally slipped back into Derek's or Stiles' mouth to help with the slide. Even in the cool air Stiles is sweating and hot, riding Derek's fingers with an open mouth.

“Derek, please.” Stiles holds himself up on his knees and lets Derek guide him down by his hips. At the first breach of Derek's cock into Stiles, his wings and body thrash. It hurts and burns and it's _so good_ but _so bad_.

Derek hushes him, rubbing his skin and wings. Stiles inhales, chest heaving, trying to relax. His nails are deep, stuck on Derek's biceps. His wings won't stop fluttering, stop moving and casting gusts of air. He rolls his hips once, and there's still pain but it's dull. It's the same kind of delicious ache he feels when he's flown for too long, the same thing he wakes up to in morning after full moons. It hurts but Stiles takes is, moving himself up and down slowly.

“Stiles, slow down.”

Stiles shakes his head, but obeys. He drops himself on Derek's cock fast, but rises to his knees slowly. Derek guides him each time, his own hips jerking up to keep inside Stiles at every moment. Though the pain continues to ebb to nothing but a dim throb at the base of his spine and in the back of his mind, Stiles' wings settle to curl around them, hiding them from the rest of the forest.

“Stiles,” Derek grunts against his throat, biting at his adam's apple. Stiles keens and they finally find their rhythm: Derek thrusting up at the perfect moment, and Stiles rolling down to meet him par for par. Stiles' hands slide, drawing temporary welts down Derek's arms until he can curl into fists on the rock. Derek is still holding him by the hips; he holds him hard enough that bruises are inevitable; he holds Stiles hard enough to stop the movement of Stiles' hips and leaving all the work to Derek.

“Ah, ah, ah, _Derek_ , shit, _damnit_ ,” Stiles is an endless litany of noise as Derek fucks up unto him hard and fast. The sound skin slapping against skin is so juvenile, so loud to Stiles' ears and in the emptiness of the forest, and it brings Stiles closer and closer to that precipice. “C'mon, c'mon Derek I want _it_.”

Derek lets out a strangled growl and bucks up, fitting himself tight inside before stilling. Stiles wheezes for air as he feels it, slow and steady as it fills him and stretches him. He moans and presses down to keep it inside, never willing to let it slip out. He knows that it's kind of useless to knot him, that it serves no purpose—but it feels so good. Stiles thinks, idly, as they settle, that he's become a little addicted to the ache of pain that mixes so easily with pleasure. His hands return to Derek's shoulders, and he rolls slowly against the feeling.

Derek can't thrust, but he jerks his hips as though he wants to. All he can do is rut inside Stiles, jostling his knot and pressing every inch of himself to Stiles' oversensitive insides.

“I wanna come feeling you inside me.” Stiles says, out of his element and so much more bold than he could ever dare to be otherwise. Derek makes a noise, essentially a _'herk,'_ and ruts up again before coming deep in Stiles. Stiles feels it, like fire up his spine and spreading out his wings. He unfolds, his wings spread out and twitch and flutter at the feeling.

When Derek wraps a hand around Stiles' cock, his wings go rigid and still, straight out from his back. Stiles gasps, cries out and brings a wrist to his mouth to bite down on; even so, his moan spills into the forest as he spills onto Derek's hand, trickling onto their stomachs. Faintly, as he regains some form of thought, he can feel Derek's come inside him, pooling at Derek's knot and unable to escape.

Stiles shakes his head and pokes at his thighs. “This was a bad idea. I won't be able to feel my legs.”

Derek looks a little apologetic, and kisses Stiles. “Sorry.”

Stiles shrugs. “My idea. Think you can stand?”

“Give me a minute.” Derek says. But he yawns and reclines on the rock, bring Stiles with him until they're lying against each other. Stiles laughs, and when he starts pressing kisses to Derek's jaw it's obvious that Derek has fallen asleep. They're still tired together, and the knot won't go down for at least an hour, maybe forty five minutes if they're lucky.

But Stiles doesn't dwell on it, and instead relaxes into Derek's chest, tracing the contours of his muscles. Later, even though he can feel the knot starting to swell and Derek's come leaking out of him slowly, Stiles lets himself fall asleep and covers them with his wings. He'll get his revenge and make Derek carry him back to the house. Later

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> For those who might be curious, I gave Stiles Blue Jay wings because Blue Jays generally symbolize "fearless, truthful, talkative" and I couldn't think of anything better to describe Stiles.
> 
> Also, Alkonosts and Sirins are Russian myths, essentially sirens made of female and bird parts, dangerously gorgeous, all that.
> 
> Thanks for reading ♥


End file.
